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Book- 
Goipghtl}?- 



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No. 42. 



English Classics 



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i -> FROM -^ L 

SHAKESPEARE 



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BY- 



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j^HARLEg AND ^AF(Y JiAMB. 

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NEW YORK: 

Clark cfe Maynard, Publishers, 

734 Broadway. 



11 
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No. 42. ,/ y 

ENGLISH CLASSICS. 



Tales from Shakespeare. 

By Charles and Mary Lamb. -^ 




THE TEMPEST. 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

KING LEAR. 



FOIi SCHOOL AND HOME USE. 



EDITED BY 

ALBERT F. BLAISDELL, A.M.,, 

AUTHOR OF "outline STUDIES IN ENGLISH CLASSICS," "OUTLINES FOR THE STUDS' 
OF ENGLISH CLASSICS," ANNOTATED EDITION OF ENOCH ARDEN," ETC. ETC. 



{] 



li JAN - ::r.. 
Clark & MAYNARD,%^gj)3t^;^ii^|§^ 

734 Broadway. 



English Classics, 



CLASSES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE, READING, GRAMMAR, ETC. 

Edited by Eminent English and American Scholars. 

.£kich Volume contains a Sketch of the Author'' s Life, Prefatory and 

Explanatory Notes, Etc., Etc. 

1 Byron's Prophecy of ©ante. (Cantos 

I. and 11. 1 
S Milton's L'Alleero and II Penseroso. 
S Lord Bacon's Essays, Civil and 

Moral. (Selected. ) 

4 Byron's Prisoner of CWllon. 

5 Moore's Fire Worshippers. (LaUa 

Bookh. Selected from parts I. and II.) 

6 Goldsmith's Deserted Tillairc. 
? Scott's M arm ion. (Solecaons from 

Canto Vi ) 

8 Scott's Lay of the Last MinstreL 

(Introduction and Canto 1.) 

9 Burns' Cotter's Saturday ]Vight,and 

Other Poems. 

10 Crabbe's the Village. 

11 Campbell's Pleasures of Hope. 

( A.bridgtu3nt of Part I . ) 

18 Macaulay's Essay on Bunyan's Pil- 
grim's Progress. 

18 Macaulay's Armada, end Other 
Poems. 

14 Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 

(Selections from Acts I., III. and I v.; 

15 Goldsmith's Traveller. 

16 Iloes's Queen's Wake. 

17 Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 

18 Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. 
19 Cray's Elegy In a Country Church* 

20 Scott's *Lady of the Lake. (Canto I.) 



2S Shakespeare's King John and King 

Richard IL (Selections.) 
28 Shakespeare's King Henry IV., 

King Henry V., and King Henry 

VI. (Selections ) 

24 Shakespeare's Henry VIII., and 
Julius Ctesar. (SekctionB ) 

25 Wordsworth's Excursion. (Book I. 

26 Pope's Essay on Criticism. 

27 Spenser's Faery Queene. (Cantos I. 
and II.) 

28 Oowper's Task. (Book I.) 

29 Milton's Comus. 

80 Tennyson's Enoch Arden. 

81 Irvlng's Sketch Book. (Selections.) 

82 Hlekens' Christmas CaroL (Cr- 
denscd ) 

88 Carlyle's Hero as a Prophet. 

84 Macaulay's AV arren Hastings. (Con- 
densed.) 

85 Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield. 
(Condensed") 

86 Tennyson's The Two Voices and a , 
Dream «f Fair A\ omen. 

8? Memory Quotations. 

88 Cavalier Poets. 

89 Dryden'8 Alexander's Feast and 
MaeFlecknoe. 

40 Keats' The Eve of St. Agnes. 

41 Irving's Legend ot'Sleepy Hollow. 



Others in Preparation. From 32 to 64 pages each, 16mo. 



Sliakespeare'S Plays — (School Editions); viz : Merchant of 
Venice, Julius Caesar, King Licar, Macbeth, Hamlet, Tempest, 
As you liike It, King Henry V. With Notes, Examination Papers and 
Plan of Preparation (Selected). By Brainerd Kellogg, A.M., Professor of the 
English Language and Literature in the Brookljm Collegiate and Polytechnic Insti- 
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The text of these plays of Shakespeare has been adapted for use in mixed classes, by the 
omission of everything that would be considered offensive. The notes have been especially 
selected to meet the requirements of School and College students, from editions eaited by 
eminent English Scholars. We are confident that teachers who examine these editions will 
pronounce tnem better adapted to the wants, both of the teacher and student, than any other 
editions published. Printed from large type, bound in a very attractive cloth binding, and 
sold at nearly one-half the price of other School Editions of Shakespeare. 

Paradise liost. (Book I.) Containing Sketch of Milton's Life— Essay on 
the Genius of Milton— Epitome of the Views of the Best-Knovra Critics on Milton, 
and full Explanatory Notes. C oth, flexible„94 pages. 

Tlie Shakespeare Reader. B'eiRg Extracts from the Plays of Shakespeare 
with Introductory Paragraphs and Notas. Grammatical, Historical and Explanator3\ 
By C. H. Wykes. 160 pp., 16mo, cloth, Hexible. 

The Canterbury Tales— The prologue of Geoffrey Chaucer. The Text 
Collated with the Seven Oldest MSB., and Life of the Author. Introductory Notice?', 
Grammar. Critical and Explanatory Notes, and Index to Obsolete and Difficult 
Words. By E. F. Willoughby, M.D. IVZ pp., IGrao, cloth, flexible. 



An Essay on Man. By Alexander F. Pope. 

cal Notes, 72 pp., cloth, flexible. 



With Clarke's Grammati- 



Copyright, 1884, by Clark & Matnard. 






INTRODUCTION. 



The delightful little book, called Tales from Shakes2Jeare, and pub- 
lished more than seventy-five years ago, was written by a brother and 
his sister, Charles and Mary Lamb. Their personal and literary 
lives are of singular interest and of the sweetest and gentlest 
heroism. Mary Lamb, the sister, was eleven years older than her 
brother, having been born in 1764 Charles Lamb, the brother, 
the genial essayist and critic, was born in London in 1775. His 
parents were in humble station, but managed to give their son a 
fair education. At the age of seven, he entered the school of 
Christ Hospital, where he remained till he was fourteen. Amon^ 
his friends at this school was Coleridge, with whom he formed a 
life-long friendship. In 1793, Lamb obtained an appointment in 
the India House, where he remained till 1825, when he was allowed 
to retire on a pension. Thus for all these long years Charles Lamb 
was a hard-worked clerk, and faithfully and patiently did he dis- 
charge the tedious duties of his position. In the year 1792, a 
terrible calamity befell his family. His sister Mary, a woman of the 
most estimable and amiable disposition, became suddenly insane, 
and in a frenzy grasped a knife and stabbed her mother to the 
heart. • This event affected the whole life of Lamb. He gave up 
all thought of marriage, and thenceforth devoted his life to his be- 
loved sister. She was ever afterward subject to fits of insanity; but 
when these attacks were over, she was a clever woman and a 
charming companion. " She was the only object between him and 
God," says Barry Cornwall, " and out of that misery and desolation 
sprung that wonderful love between brother and sister, which has 
no parallel in history." Mary, the "Bridget" of his essays, be- 
came his housekeeper. Their humble home was a favorite resort 
of many distinguished men of the time wiio have recorded their 
deep affection for the gifted brother and his gentle sister. Hard 
and dreary as was his daily life, Charles Lamb found time to read 
and re-read the great English prose-writers and dramatists, par- 
ticularly of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He so satu- 
rated his mind with mnch reading of these old authors, that his 
style has a peculiar and subtle charm. A certain quaintness and 
antiquity became the natural garb of his thoughts. Lamb is best 
known "by his Essays of Elia, writings full of quaint humor and 
tender pathos. These essays, signed " Elia," were contributed to 
various London periodicals, between the years 1880 and 1833. Some 



IV • INTRODUCTION. 

of tliem, generally visions and parables, are incomparably simple 
and beautiful, as The Gkild-Angel and Dream-Children. Read also 
New- Years JEve, My First Play, Dissertation upon Roast Fig, Old 
China and Barbara S.," as illustrations of these quaint, liamorous 
and original essays. In conjunction with his sister, Lamb compiled 
several popular books for children. Among these is the Tales from 
Shakespeare, published in 1807, and consisting of twenty " tales " 
founded upon as many diiferent plays of Shakespeare. Fourteen 
were written by Mary, and the remaining six, the great tragedies, 
by Charles. Of the tales in this number of the " English Classics," 
Mary wrote The Tempest and The Merchant of Venice ; and Charles 
wrote King Lear. The success of the Tcdes was decisive and 
immediate. It has kept its place as a classic all these years, and 
serves to-day as a most popular and useful introduction to the study 
of Shakespeare. In a private letter to a friend, Mary Lamb wrote : 
" You would like to see us, as we often sit writing at one table, like 
Hermia and Helena in the Midsummer Night's Dream; or rather 
like an old literary Darby and Joan, I taking snuff and he groaning 
all the while and saying he can make nothing of it, which he 
always says till he has finished, and then he finds out he has made 
something of it." 

A slight accident brought on erysipelas and " the gentle Elia " 
sinking rapidly, died in December, 1834. Mary survived her brother 
thirteen years and was laid in the same grave with him in May, 
1847. 

Note.— For collateral reading, consult Barry Cornwall's " Memoir of Charles 
Lamb," Ainger's Life and Anne Gilchrist's "• Mary Lamb." 



1 



Extract from the Original Preface. 

The following tales are meant to be submitted to the younjr 
reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for which 
purpose his words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring 
them in ; and in whatever has been added to them to give them the 
regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken to 
select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the beautiful 
English tongue in which he wrote. It is my wish that the true 
plays of Shakespeare may prove to you in older years, enrichers of 
the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish 
and mercenary thoug-ht, a lesson of sweet and honorable thought 
and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; 
for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full. — Mar^ 
Ijamb, 



LAM B'S 
Tales from Shakespeare. 



THE TEMPEST. 

" The Tempest is one of tlie most original and perfect of Shake- 
speare's productions, and he has shown in it all the variety of his 
powers. It is full of grace and grandeur. The humor and imagi- 
nary characters, the dramatic and the grotesque, are blended together 
with the greatest art, and without any appearance of it." 

— Willkmi Hazlitt. 

PREFATORY NOTE. 

It is highly probable that this beautiful play was written in the 
year 1610 or 1611, when Shakespeare was about forty-seven years 
of age. The great dramatist usually founded his plays upon some 
well-known historical tale or romance. The story of The Tempest 
was probably borrowed from some old Italian or Spanish novel. 
Several points of resemblance render it probable that Shakespeare 
in writing the play had before him an account of a shipwreck in 
the Bermudas, written by Sylvester Jourdan. The fleet of Sir 
George Somers was wrecked on one of these islands in 1609, and 
the admiral's ship was driven ashore. Shakespeare makes mention 
in the first Act of " the still -vexed Bermoothes." Gonzalo's de- 
scription of an imaginary commonwealth is borrowed from Florio's 
translation of Montaigne's Essays. A German dramatist named 
Ayrer. who died in 1605, was the author of a play, the plot of which 
has so much in common with the plot of The Tempest that it has 
been supposed that they must have had the same original. 

"As to the actual scene of The Tempest," s&js Richard Grant 
White, *' that is in the realms of fancy. Mr. Hunter has contended 
that Lampedusa, an island in the Mediterranean, lying not far out 
of a ship's course, passing from Tunis to Naples, and which is 



6 THE TEMPEST. 

uninhabited, and supposed by sailors to be enchanted, was Pros- 
pero's place of exile. It may have been ; though, if it were, we 
would a little rather not believe so. When the great magician at 
whose beck it rose from the waters broke his staff, the island sunk 
and carried Caliban down with it." 



There was a certain island ' in the sea, the only inhabitants 
of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his 
daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She came to 
this island so young that she had no memory of having seen any 
other human face than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell made out of a rock ; it was divided 
into several apartments, (me of which Prospero called his study; 
there he kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study 
at that time much affected by all learned men ; and the knowl- 
edge of.this art he found very useful to him, for being thrown by 
a strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by 
a witch ^ called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his 
arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits 
that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees because 
they had refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle 
spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these 
Ariel was the chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in Ms 
nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in torment- 
ing an ugly monster ^ called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge 
because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, 



I 



^ Certain island. — There is good reason to believe that the early accounts of 
the Bermudas, then very lately made known to the English public, sugsested to 
Shakespeare the general idea of his enchanted island, and gave it much of its 
picturesque and supernatural character. 

"Enchanted by a witch.— It vpas the current opinion in Shakespeare's 
time, that the Bermudas and other far-away islands of the Western seas were 
Inhabited by witches and monsters. They were associated, in the imagination 
of the people of that day, with vague ideas of terror and superstition, 
* Ugly monster. — 

" This misshapen knave, 
His mother was a witch ; and so strong 
That could control the moon, make flow and ebbs, 
And deal in her command without her power." 
" Caliban has become a by-word, as the strange creation of a poetical imagina- 
• tion : a mixture of the gnome and the savage ; half demon, half \)r}ite.''''—Scmegel. 



THE TEMPEST. 7 

Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far 
less human in form than an ape ; he took him home to his cell 
and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have been very 
kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from 
his mother Sycorax would not let him learn anything good or 
useful ; therefore he was employed like a slave to fetch wood 
and do the most laborious offices, and Ariel had the charge of 
compelling him to these services. 

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who 
was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slyly and 
pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in the mire ; and 
then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him ; 
then swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog 
he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedge- 
hog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of 
such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him when- 
ever Caliban neglected tlie work which Prospero commanded 
him to do. 

Having these powerful sj^irits obedient to his will, Prospero 
Dould by their means command the winds and the waves of the 
sea. By his orders they raised a violent storm, in the midst of 
which, and struggling with the wild sea-waves that every mo- 
ment threatened to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine 
large ship, which he told her was full of living beings like them- 
selves. " O my dear father," said she, " if by your art you have 
raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See ! 
the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls ! they will all 
perish. If I had the power I would sink the sea beneath the 
earth rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all 
the precious souls within her." 

" Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero ; " there 
is no harm done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the 
ship shall receive any hurt. What I have done has been in care 
of you, my dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or where 
you came from, and you know no more of me but that I am your 
father and live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time 



8 THE TEMPEST. 

before you came to this cell ? I think you can not, for you were 
not then three years of age." 

'' Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

" By what <?" asked Prospero ; " by any other house or person ? 
Tell me what you can remember, my child." 

Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. 
But had I not once four or five women who attended upon me ?" 

Prospero answered, '' You had, and more. How is it that this 
still lives in your mind ? Do you remember how you came here?" 

" No, sir," said Miranda. " I remember nothing more." 

" Twelve years ago, Miranda,'' continued Prospero, " I was 
Duke of Milan, and you were a princess and my only heir. I 
had a younger brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I 
trusted everything ; and as I was fond of retirement aud deep 
study, I commonly left the management of my state alfairs to i 
your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed he proved). I, 
neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did dedi- 
cate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother 
Antonio being thus in possession of my power began to think 
himself the Duke indeed. The opportunity I gave him of mak- 
ing himself popular among my subjects awakened in his bad 
nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom ; this he 
soon effected with the aid of the King of Naples, a powerful 
prince, who was my enemy." 

" Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour destroy 
us?" 

" My child," answered her father, " they durst not, so dear was 
the love that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board 
a ship, and when we were some leagues out at sea he forced us 
into a small boat without either tackle, sail, or mast; there he 
left us, as he thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, 
one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately placed in the boat 
water, provisions, apparel, and some books, which I prize above 
my dukedom." 

" O my father," said Miranda, " what a trouble I must have 
been to you then!" 



I 



THE TEMPEST. 9 

" No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a little cherub that 
did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me to bear up 
against my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this 
desert island, since when my chief delight has been in teaching 
you, Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions." 

"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now, 
pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm." 

" Know then," said her father, " that by means of this storm 
my enemies, the King of Naples and my cruel brother, are cast 
ashore upon this island.'' 

Having so said, ProsjDero gently touched his daughter with his 
magic wand and she fell fast asleep, for the spirit Ariel just then 
presented himself before his master to give an account of the 
tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company ; and 
though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero 
did not choose she should hear him holding converse (as would 
seem to her) with the empty air. 

"Well, my brave spirit,'' said Prospero to Ariel, "how have 
you performed your task ?" 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors 
of the mariners ; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the 
first who leaped into the sea ; and his father thought he saw this 
dear son swallowed up by the waves and lost. " But he is safe," 
said Ariel, " in a corner of tlie isle sitting with his arms folded, 
sadly lamenting the loss of the king, his father, whom he con- 
cludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured; and his 
princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look 
fresher than before." 

"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him 
hither: my daughter must see this young prince. Where is the 
king and my brother ?" 

"I left them, 'V answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdinand, 
whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him 
perish. Of the ship's crew, not one is missing, though each one 
thinks himself the only one saved ; and the ship, though invisi- 
ble to them, is safe in the harbor." 



10 . THE TEMPEST. 

" Ariel," said Proepero, " thy charge is faithfully performed ; 
but there is more work yet." 

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, 
master, you have jDromised me my liberty. I pray, remember I 
have done you worthy service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, 
served you without grudge or grumbling." 

•' How now V said Prospero. " You do not recollect what a 
torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch 
Sycorax, who, with age and envy, was almost bent double? 
Where was she born ? Speak : tell me." 

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

" Oh, was she so ?" said Prospero, *' I must recount what you 
have been, which I find you do not remember. This bad witch 
Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, 
was banished from Algiers and here left by the sailors; and be- 
cause you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
mands she shut you up in a tree, where I found you howling. 
This torment, remember, I did free you from." 

" Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem un- 
grateful ; " I will obey your commands." 

"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." He then 
gave orders what further he would have him do ; and away went 
Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him still 
sitting on the grass in the same melancholy posture. 

" Oh, my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I 
will soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady 
Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow 
me." He then began singing — 

. "Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark I now I hear them, ding-dong-bell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince j 



THE TEMPEST. 11 

from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in 
amazement the sound of Ariel's voice till it led him to Prospero 
and Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large tree. 
Now Miranda had never seen a man before, except her own father. 

"Miranda,'' said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at 
yonder." 

" O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, " surely that 
is a spirit. Lord ! how it looks about ! Believe me, sir, it is a 
beautiful creature. Is it not a spirit ?" 

"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has 
senses such as we have. This young man you see was in the 
ship ; he is somewhat altered by grief or you might call him a 
handsome person ; he has lost his companions, and is wandering 
about to find them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and gray beards 
like her father, was delighted with the appearance of this beauti- 
ful young prince ; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in 
this desert place, and, from the strange sounds he heard, expect- 
ing nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted 
island, and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as 
such he began to address her.^ 

She timidly answered she was no goddess, but a sim23le maid, 
and was going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero 
interrupted her. He was well pleased to find they admired each 
other, for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love 
at first sight ; but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to 
throw some diflSculties in their way ; therefore, advancing for- 
ward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling him he 
came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who was the 

^ Began to address lier.— Read this passage from the text :— 
" Most sure, the goddess 
On whom these airs attend ! Vouchsafe my prayer 
May know if you remain upon this island ; 
And that you some good instruction give 
How I may bear me here ; my prime request, 
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder 
If you be maid or no ?" etc. 



12 ■ THE TEMPEST. 

lord of it. " Follow me," said he, " 1 will tie you neck and feet 
together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-fisl), withered roots, 
and husks of acorns, shall be your food." " No," said Ferdi- 
nand, " I will resist such entertainment, till I see a more power- 
ful enemy," and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic 
wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no 
power to move. 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so 
ungentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the 
second man I ever saw, and to me he seems a true one." 

" Silence," said her father, " one word more will make me 
chide you, girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You 
think there are no more such fine men, having seen only him and 
Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this as he 
does Caliban." This he said to prove his daughter's constancy ; 
and she replied, " My aflfections are most humble. I have no 
wish to see a goodlier man," 

"Come on, young man,'' said Prospero to the prince, "you 
have no power to disobey me." 

'' I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand ; and not knowing 
that it was by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, 
he was astonished to find himself so strangely compelled to 
follow Prospero. Looking back on Miranda as long as he could 
see her, he said, as he went after Prospero into the cave, "My 
spirits are all bound up, as if I were in a dream ; but this man's 
threats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem light to me 
if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell ; he 
soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to per- 
form, taking care to let his daughter know the hard labor he 
had imposed on him ; and then pretending to go into his study, 
he secretly watched them both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy 
logs of wood. King's sons not being much used to laborious 
work, Miranda soon after found her lover ^ almost dying with 

^ Miranda «... found lier lover.— This interview between Miranda 
and Ferdinand, described in the First Scene of Act Third, is one of the most 
charming passages to be found in Shakespeare. 



I 



THE TEMPEST. 13 

fatigue. " Alas I" said she, " do not work so hard ; ray father is 
at his studies, he is safe for these three hours ; pray rest yourself." 

"O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must 
finish my task before I take my rest." 

" If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will carry your logs 
the while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. 
Instead of a help, Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a 
long conversation, so that the business of log-carrying went on 
very slowly. 

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a 
trial of his love, was not at his books as his daughter supposed, 
but was standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said. 

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him, saying it 
was against her father's express command she did so. 

Prosj)ero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's 
disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to 
fall in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her 
love by forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well 
pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to 
love her above all the ladies he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty,' which he said exceeded 
all the women in the world, she replied, " I do not remember the 
face of any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my 
good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad, I 
know not ; but believe me, sir, I would not wish any comj^anion 
in the world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape 
but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too 
freely, and my father's precepts I forget." 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to 
say. " This goes on exactly as I could wish ; my girl will be 
Queen of Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long sjDeech (for young 
princes speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he 
was heir to the crown of N"aples, and that she should be his queen. 

^ Praises of her beauty.— Read this passage in Act m., Scene 1 :— 

" Admired Miranda ! 
Indeed the top of admiration ; worth 
What's dearest to the world I" etc. 



14 THE TEMPEST. 

" Ah, sir," said she, " I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. 
I will answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, 
if you will marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible 
before them. 

''Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard and 
approve of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too 
severely used you, I will make you rich amends by giving you 
my daughter. All your vexations were but my trials of your 
love, and you have nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which 
your true love has worthily purchased, take my daughter, an< 
do not smile that I boast she is above all praise." He then, tellini 
them that he had business which required his presence, desirei 
they would sit down and talk together till he returned ; and this 
command Miranda seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 

When Prospero left them, he called his sj)irit Ariel, wh( 
quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what he had dom 
with Prospero's brother and the King of Naples. Ariel said he 
had left them almost out of their senses with fear, at the strange 
things he had caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with 
wandering about, and famished for want of food, he had sud- II 
denly set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as they 
were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the shape 
of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feast van- 
ished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy 
spoke to them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving Pros- 
pero from his dukedom, and leaving him and his infant daughter 
to perish in the sea, saying, that for this cause these terrors were 
suffered to afflict them. 

The King of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented 
the injustice ^ they had done to Prospero ; and Ariel told his 



I 



I 



1 Repented the injustice.— Read the King's penitent words in Act III., 
Scene 3 : — 

" O, it is monstrous, monstrous ! 
Metliought the billows spolie and told me of it 
The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd 
The name of Prosper," etc. 



THE TEMPEST. l5 

master he was certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, 
though a spirit, could not but pity them. 

" Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero ; " if you, who 
are but a spirit, feel for tlieir distress, shall not I, who am a 
human being like themselves, have compassion on them ? Bring 
them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned with the King, Antonio, and old Gonzalo 
in their train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild 
music he played in the air to draw them on to his master's 
presence. This Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly pro- 
vided Prospero formerly with books and provisions, when his 
wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish in an open 
boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they 
did not know Prosi3ero. He first discovered himself to the 
good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver of his life ; and 
then his brother and the king knew that he was the injured 
Prospero. 

Antonio, with tears and sad words of sorrow and true repent- 
ance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and the king expressed 
his sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his 
brother : and Prospero forgave them ; and, upon their engaging 
to restore his dukedom, he said to the King of Naples, " I have 
a gift in store for you too ; " and opening a door, showed him his 
son Ferdinand, playing at chess ^ with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at 
this unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned 
in the storm. 

" O wonder !" said Miranda, " what noble creatures these are ! 
It must surely be a brave world that has such people in it." 

The King of Naples was almost as much astonished at the 
beauty and excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had 

^ Playing at cliess.— Read the delightful passage, (Act V., Scene 1), in 
which Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. 

"Miranda is a charicter blending the truth of nature with the most exquisite 
refinement of poetic fancy, unrivalled, even in Shakespeare's own long and 
beautiful series of portraitures of feminine excellence."— G'. C. Verplanck. 



16 THE TEMPEST. 

been. " Who is this maid ?" said he ; " she seems the goddess 
that has parted us, and brought us thus together." " No, sir," 
answered Ferdinand, smiling to find that his father had fallen 
into the same mistake that he had done when he first saw Mi- 
randa, " she is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine ; 
I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your con- 
sent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this 
Prospero, who is the famous Duke of Milan, of whose renown I 
have heard so much, but never saw him till now : of him I have 
received a new life : he has made himself to me a second father, 
giving me this dear lady." 

" Then I must be her father," said the king ; " but oh ! how 
oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness." 

"No more of that," said Prospero; " let us not remember our 
troubles jjast, since they so happily have ended." And tlien 
Prospero embraced his brother, and again assured him of his 
forgiveness; and said that a wise, over-ruling Providence had 
permitted that he should be driven from his poor dukedom of 
Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for 
that by their meeting in this desert island, it happened that the 
king's son had loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort 
his brother, so tilled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he 
wept and was uuable to speak ; and the kind old Gonzalo wept 
to see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the 
young couple. 

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbor, 
and the sailors "^U on board her, and that he and his daughter 
would accompany them home the next morning. "In the mean- 
time," said he, " partake of such refreshments as my poor cave 
affords; and for your evening's entertainment ^ I will relate the 
history of my life from my first landing in this desert island." 

^ Eveninj; entertainnaent.— Prospero gives his daughter and her lover an 
exhibition of his magic art. 

" For I must 
Bestow upon the ej-es of this young couple 
Some vanity of mine art : it is my promise, 
And they expect it from me." 



i 



THE TEMPEST. 17 

He then called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the 
cave in order; and the company were astonished at the uncouth 
form and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero 
said) was the only attendant he had to wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his 
service, to the great joy of that lively little spirit ; who, though 
he had been a faithful servant to his master, was always longing 
to enjoy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like 
a wild bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits and sweet 
smiling flowers. " My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little 
sprite when he made him free, " I shall miss you ; yet you shall have 
your freedom." " Thank you, my dear master," said Ariel; "but 
give me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, 
before you bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit; 
and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall live!" 
Here Ariel sung this pretty song — 

" Wliere the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
There I coach when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back do I fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 

Prospero then buried deej) in tbe earth his magical books and 
wand,^ for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic 
art. After having thus overcome his enemies, and being recon- 
ciled to his brother and the King of Naples, nothing now re- 
mained to complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land, 
to take possession of his dukedom, and to witness the happy 

Eevels follow, in which Iris, Ceres and Juno appear. Bead and commit to 
-memory the closing words with which Prospero dismisses the spirits :— 
" Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 
As I foretold vou, were all spirits, and . ,^, _ . 

Are melted into air, into ihin air:" etc.— Act IV., Scene 1. 

* Buried deep .... his magical books and wand.— 

" This rough magic 
I here abjure ;— I'll break my staff. 
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
I'll drown my book." 



18 THE TEMPEST. 

nuptials of his daughter Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which 
the king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendor 
on their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe con- 
voy of the spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant voyage, soon 
arrived. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

' " The more we study tlie work, the more we cannot but wonder 

f that so much of human nature, in so great a variety of develop- 
ment, should be crowded into so small a space. — H. N. Hudson. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 

There is good reason to believe that The Merchant of Venice, 
one of Shakespeare's most perfect works, was written and acted as 
early as 1594. The plot of the play is made up of two distinct 
stories ; that of the bond, and that of the caskets, fables told sepa- 
rately many times and in many countries. Both stories are found 
in a collection of tales, popular in the Middle Ages, called Gesta 
Romanorum, translated into English during the reign of Henry VI. 
The immediate source from which Shakespeare derived the inci- 
dent of the pound of flesh- is probably a collection of tales written by 
an Italian author about 1378, but first published at Milan in 1558. 
It is not unlikely that the stories of the play may have been worked 
over by the genius of Shakespeare from old and useless dramatic 
material, found in the crude productions of the early English 
theatre. The question is not of any great importance. " Be the 
merit of the fable whose it may," says an eminent Shakespearean 
scholar, "the characters, the language, the poetry, and the senti- 
ment are his, and his alone. To no other writer of the period 
could we be indebted. for the charming combination of womanly 
grace and dignity and playfulness which is found in Portia ; for 
the exquisite picture of friendship between Bassanio and Antonio ; 
for the profusion of poetic beauties scattered over the play ; and for 
the masterly delineation of that perfect type of Judaism in olden 
times, the character of Shylock himself. 



20 THE MERCHANT OF VEKICE. 






Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice : he was an usurer, who had 
amassed an immense fortune by lending money at great interest 
to Chi|ftLan merchants. Shylock being a hard-hearted man, 
exacte^fthe payment of the money he lent, with such severity, 
that he was much disliked by all good men, and particularly by 
Antonio, a young merchant of Venice ; and Shylock as much 
hated Antonio, because he used to lend money to people in dis- 
tress, and would never take any interest for the money he lent; 
therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and 
the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shy- 
lock on the Rialto,^ he used to reproach him with his usuries and 
hard-dealings; which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, 
while be secretly meditated revenge. 

Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, 
and had the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies ; indeed, 
he was one in which the ancient Koraan honor more apj^eared 
than in any that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved 
by all his fellow-citizens ; but the friend who was nearest and 
dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having 
but a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his little fortune by 
living in too expensive a manner for his slender means, as young 
men of high rank with small fortunes are apt to do. Whenever 
Bassanio wanted money, Antonio assisted him ; and it seemed as 
if they had but one heart and one purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he 
wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady 
whom he dearly loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had 
left her sole heiress to a large estate ; and that in her father's 
lifetime he used to visit at her house, when he thought he had 
observed this lady had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless 
messages, that seemed to say he would be no unwelcome suitor ; 
but not having money to furnish himself with an appearance be- 
fitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought Antonio to 
add to the many favors he had shown him by lending him 

» Rialto The chief of the islands on which Venice is built. The name 

Rialto game also to be applied to th^ Exchange which was on that islan<J. 



THE MERCHANT OF VEKICE. 21 

three thousand ducats. Antonio had no money by him at that 
time to lend his friend ; but expecting soon to have s^tte ships 
come home laden with merchandise, he said he wourcr go to 
Sbylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the money upon 
the credit of those ships. 

Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio 
asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats ^ upon any in- 
terest he should require, to be paid out of the merchandise 
contained in his ships at sea. On this Shylock thought within 
himself: '• If I can once catch him on the hip," I will feed fat the 
ancient grudge I bear him ; he hates our Jewish nation ; he lends 
out money gratis ; and among the merchants he rails at me and 
my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be. 
my tribe, if I forgive him !" Antonio, finding he was musing 
within himself and did not answer, and being impatient for the 
money, said, " Shylock, do you hear ? will you lend the money ?" 
To this question the Jew replied, " Signior Antonio, on the 
Rialto many a time and often you have railed at me about my 
moneys, and my usuries, and I have borne it with a patient 
shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe : and then you 
have called me an unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my 
Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I was a 
cur. Well, then, it now appears you need my help ; and you 
come to me and say, Shylock, lend me moneys. Has a dog money ? 
Is it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats ? Shall I 
bend low and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, 
another time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am 
to lend you moneys." Antonio replied, " I am as like to call you 
so again, to spit on you again, and spurn you too. If you will 
lend me this money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but rather 
lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you may with 
better face exact the penalty." '' Why, look you," said Shylock, 
"how you storm ! I would be friends with you, and have your 

' Three thousancl ducats.— The value of the Venetian ducat, in Shake- 
speare's day, was about $1.50. 

"On the hip. — To have the advantage over one. A phrase used by . 
wrestlers. 



22 THE MERCHAI^T OF VENICE. 

love. I will forget the shames you have put upon me, I will 
supply »ur wants, and take no interest for my money." This 
seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio ; and then Shylock, 
still pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain An- 
tonio's love, again said he would lend him the three thousand 
ducats, and take no interest for his money ; only Antonio should 
go with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, 
that if he did not repay the money by a certain day, he would 
forfeit a pound of flesh, ^ to be cut off from any part of his body 
that Shylock pleased, 

" Content," said Antonio ; " I will sign to this bond, and say 
there is much kindness in the Jew." Bassanio said Antonio 
should not sign to such a bond for him ; but still Antonio insisted 
that he would sign it, for that before the day of payment came, 
his ships would return laden with many times the value of the 
money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O father Abraham, 
what suspicious people these Christians are ! their own hard 
dealings teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray 
you tell me this, Bassanio ; if he should break this day, what 
should I gain by the exaction of the forfeiture ? A pound of 
man's flesh taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable 
neither, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to buy his favor 
I offer this friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding 
all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend 
should run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, 
Antonio signed the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew 
said) merely in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near 
Venice, at a place called Belmont ; her name was Portia, and in 
the graces of her pers(m and her mind she was nothing inferior 
to that Portia, of whom we read, who was Cato's daughter, and 



^ Pound of flesli.— The story of the pound of flesh is one of the many 
traditionary narratives which has traveled round the world, reappearing in 
varied forms, in diflferent ages, countries and languages. 



I 



5CHE HEECHAi^T OF VENICE. 23 

the wife of Brutus. Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with 
money by his friend Antonio at the hazard of his life, set out 
for Belmont with a splendid train, and attended by a gentleman 
of the name of Gratiano. Bassanio proving successful in his 
suit,^ Portia in a short time consented to accept of him for a 
husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that 
his high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; 
she, who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches 
enough not to regard wealth in a husband, answered with a 
graceful modesty,^ that she would wish herself a thousand times 
more fair, and ten thousand times more rich, to be more worthy 
of him ; and then the accomplished Portia prettily dispraised her- 
self, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, 
yet not so old but that she could learn, and that she would commit 
her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by him in all things ; 
and she said, " Myself and what is mine, to yojii and yours is now 
converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair 
mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants ; and 
now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord ; 
I give them with this ring :" presenting a ring to Bassanio. 
Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the 
gracious manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of 
a man of his humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy 
and reverence to the dear lady who so honored him, hy anything 
but broken words of love and thankfulness ; and taking the ring, 
he vowed never to part with it. 

Gratiano and Nerissa. Portia's waiting-maid, were in attend- 
ance upon their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully prom- 
ised to become the obedient wife of Bassanio ; and Gratiano, 
wishing Bassanio and the generous lady joy, desired permission 

' Successful in liis suit,— All reference to the "casket scenes," in which 
the suitors of the fair Portia are doomed to disappointment, except Bassanio, is • 
here omitted. See the text. Act II., and Act HI., Scene 2. 

^ Answered .... graceful modesty. — Head, and commit the passage, 
Act III., Scene 2 :— 

"You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am," etc. 



24 THE MERCHANT OF ' 

to be married at the same time. " With all my heart, Gratiano^" 
said Bassanio, " if you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting 
gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, 
if her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was 
true. Nerissa replied, " Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." 
Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then our 
wedding-feast shall be much honored by your marriage, Gra- 
tiano.'' 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this mo- 
ment by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from 
Antonio containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio read An- 
tonio's letter, Portia feared that it was to tell him of the death 
of some dear friend, he looked so pale; and inquiring what was 
the news which had so distressed him, he said, " O sweet Portia, 
here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted 
paper : gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I 
freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins ; but I 
should have told you I had less than nothing, being in debt." 
Bassanio then told Portia what has been here related, of his 
borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's procuring it 
of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by which Antonio had 
engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if it was not repaid by a 
certain day ; and then Bassanio read Antonio's letter, the words 
of which were : " Siceet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my T)ond to 
the Jew is forfeited ; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should 
live., I could wish to see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use 
your pleasure ; if your love for me do not persuade you to come, 
let not my letter.'' " Oh my dear love," said Portia, " despatch all 
business and begone ; you shall have gold to pay his money 
twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by 
my Bassanio's fault ; and as you are so dearly bought, I will 
dearly love you." Portia then said she would be married to 
Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal right to the 
money ; and that same day they were married, and Gratiano was 
also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the in- 



THE KEECHAHT OF VEITICE. 25 

stant they were married, set out in great haste for Venice, where 
Bassanio found Antonio in prison. The day of paying being 
past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the money which Bas- 
sanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of Antonio's 
flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before 
the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense 
the event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to 
him, and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when 
he returned ; yet she feared it would go hard with Antonio, and 
wheo she was left alone, she began to think and consider within 
herself, if she could by any means be instrumental in saving the 
life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; and notwithstanding, when 
she wished to honor her Bassanio, she had said to him with such 
a meek, wife-like grace, that she would submit in all things to 
be governed by his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth 
into action by the peril of her honored husband's friend, she did 
nothing doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her 
own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to 
Venice, and speak in Antonio's defence. Portia had a relation 
who was a counsellor in the law ; to this gentleman, whose name 
was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to him, desired his 
opinion, and that with his advice he would also send the dress 
worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he brought 
letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also every- 
thing necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, 
and putting on the robes of a counsellor,^ she took Nerissa along 
with her as her clerk ; and setting out immediately, they arrived 
at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was just going 
to be heard before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate- 
house, when Portia entered this high court of justice, and pre- 

^ Bobes of a counsellor.— An old writer describes the dress of a doctor of 
laws, the habit in which Portia defends Antonio. The upper robe was of black 
damask cloHfc, velvet, or silk, according to the weather. The under one black 
sUk, with a silk sash, the ends of which hang down to the middle of the leg ; 
the stockings of black cloth or velvet ; the cap of rich velvet or silk. 



^6 THE MERCHANT OF VEinCS. 

sented a letter from Bellario, in which that learned counsellor 
wrote to the duke, saying he would have come himself to plead 
for Antonio, but he was prevented by sickness, and he requested 
that the leamed young doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) 
might be permitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted, 
much wondering at the youthlul appearance of the stranger, who 
was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig. 

And now began this important trial/ Portia looked around 
her, and she saw the merciless Jew ; and she saw Bassanio, but 
he knew her not in her disguise. He was standing beside An- 
tonio, in an agony of distress and fear for his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in, 
gave this tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the 
duty she had undertaken to perform ; and first of all she ad- 
dressed herself to Shylock ; and allowing that he had a right by 
the Venetian law to have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she 
spoke so sweetly of the noble quality of mercy^- as would have 
softened any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's ; saying, that it 
dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath ; 
and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him that gave, 
and him that received it ; and how it became monarchs better 
than their crowns, being an attribute of God himself; and that 
earthly power came nearest to God's in proportion as mercy 
tempered justice; and she bid Shylock remember that as we all 
pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach us to show mercy, 

' This important trial.— Read and study this great trial scene, which is in 
Act IV. of the play. The incidents in this heantifnl play are certainly not ot 
every-day occurrence, yet they are sxich as might have actually occurred in the 
times and countries in which Shakespeare has placed his drama. It will he 
remembered that Shakespeare lived in the height of the legal controversy 
between the strict and literal old common-law and the equitable doctrine, on the 
subject of bonds and penalty. The old common-law held, that on the forfeiture 
of the bond, or a default of payment, the whole penalty was recoverable. It was 
highly probable that there were many well-known instances of hardship in enforc- 
ing penalties familiar to London citizens at the time The Merchant of Venice was 
written. 

^ Quality of mercy — Read and commit to memory the exact words of the 
famous plea by Portia ; nineteen lines, Act IV., Scene 1, beginning : — 
" The quality of mercy is not strained, *• 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath," etc. 



THE MERCHAKT OF VENICE. ^7 

Sljylock only acswered her by desiring to have the penalty for- 
feited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the money ?" asked 
Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of the three 
thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire ; which 
Shylock refusing and still insisting upon having a pound of 
Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young counsellor 
would endeavor to wrest the law a little to save Antonio's life. 
But Portia gravely answered, that laws once established must 
never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might 
not be altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in his 
favor, and he said, " A Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise 
young judge, how I do honor you ! How much older are you 
than your looks !" 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond ; and 
when she had read it, she said, " This bond is forfeited, and by 
this the Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him 
cut off nearest Antonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, 
''Be merciful ; take the money, and bid me tear the bond." But 
no mercy would the cruel Shylock show ; and he said, " By my 
soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter 
me." " Why, then, Antonio,'' said Portia, " you must prepare 
your bosom for the knife ;" and while Shylock was sharpening a 
long knife with great eagerness to cut off" the pound of flesh, 
Portia said to Antonio, " Have you anything to say V Antonio, 
with calm resignation, rei3li€d, that he had but little to say, for that 
he had prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, 
" Give me your hand, Bassanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that 
I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your 
honorable wife, and tell her how I have loved you !" Bassanio 
in the deepest affliction replied, " Antonio, I am married to a wife 
who is as dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and 
all the world, are not esteemed with me above your life. I would 
lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at 
all offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to 
so true a friend as Antonio in those strong terms, yet could not 
help answering, " Your wife would give you little thanks, if she 
were present, to hear you make this ofier." And then Gratiano, 



'28 THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 

who loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make a 
speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who 
was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have a 
wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were in heaven, if she 
could but entreat some power there to change the cruel temper 
of this currish Jew." " It is well you wish this behind her back, 
else you would have but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. Shy- 
lock now cried out, impatiently, " We trifle time ; I pray pro- 
nounce the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in 
the court, and every heart was full of grief for Antonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh ; and 
she said to the Jew, " Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, 
lest he bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that 
Antonio should bleed to death, said, "It is not so named in the 
bond." Portia repbed, "It is not so named in the bond, but 
what of that? It is good you did so much for charity.". To this, 
all the answer that Shylock would make was, " I cannot find it ; 
it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound of 
Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards 
it. And you may cut this flesh from ofi" his breast. The law 
allows it, and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, 
" O wise and upright judge! A Daniel is come to judgment!" 
And then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking eagerly 
on Antonio, he said, " Come, prepare !" 

" Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something else. 
This bond here gives you no drop of blood ; the words expressly 
are, a pound of flesh. If in the cutting ofi" the pound of flesh 
you shed one drop of Christian blood, your land and goods are 
by the law to be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now, as 
it was utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh 
without shedding some of Antonio's blood, this wise discovery 
of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that was named in 
the bond, saved the life of Antonio ; and all admiring the wonder- 
ful sagacity of the young counsellor, who had so happily thought 
of this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of the 
senate-house ; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shy- 
lock had used, " O wise and upright judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel 
is come to judgment !" 



THE MEECHAKT OF VENICE. 29 

Shylock finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said, with 
a disappointed look, that lie would take the money ; and Bas- 
sanio, rejoiced beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliver- 
ance, cried out, " Here is the money !" But Portia stopped 
him, saying, " Softly ; there is no haste ; the Jew shall have 
nothing but the penalty ; therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off 
the flesh ; biit mind you shed no blood ; nor do not cut off m'pre 
nor less than just a pound : be it more or less by one poor scruple, 
nay, if the scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, you are 
condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is 
forfeited to the senate." "Give me my money, and let me go," 
said Shylock. " I have it ready," said Bassanio ; " here it is." 

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again 
stopped him saying, " Tarry, Jew ; I have yet another hold upon 
you. By the laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, 
for having conspired against the life of one of its citizens, iand 
your life lies at the mercy of the duke; therefore down on your 
knees, and ask him to pardon you." The duke then said to 
Shylock, " That you may see the difference of our Christian 
spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it ; half your wealth 
belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the state." The 
generous Antonio then said, that he would give up his share of 
Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over 
at his death to his daughter and her husband: for Antonio 
knew that the Jew had an only daughter, who had lately married 
against his consent to a young Christian named Lorenzo, a friend 
of Antonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he had dis- 
inherited her. The Jew agreed to this ; and, being thus disap- 
pointed in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, ''I 
am ill. Let me go home ; send the deed after me, and I will 
sign over half my riches to my daughter." " Get thee gone 
then," said the duke, " and sign it ; and if you repent your cruelty 
and turn Christian, the state will forgive you the fine of the other 
half of your riches." 

The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He 
then highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young 
counsellor, and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant 
to return to Belmont before her husband, replied, "I humbly 



30 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

thank your ^race, but I must away directly." The duke said he 
-was sorry he had uot leisure to stay and dine with him ; and, 
turning to Antonio, he added, " Reward this gentleman ; for iu 
my mind you are much indebted to him," 

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio 
said to Portia, "■ Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend, An- 
tonio, have, by your wisdom, been this day acquitted of grievous 
penalties, and I beg you will accept of the three thousand ducats 
due unto the Jew." 

"And we shall stand indebted to you over and above," said 
Antonio, "in love and service evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but 
upon Bassanio still pressing her to accejjt of some reward, she 
said, " Give me your gloves ; I will wear them for your sake ; " 
and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, she espied the nng 
which she had given him upon his finger. Now it was the ring 
the wily lady wanted to get from him to make a merry jest when 
she saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for his gloves ; 
and she said, when she saw the ring, " And for your love I will 
take this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed, that the 
counsellor should ask him for the only thing he could not part 
with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could not give 
him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed 
never to part with it ; but that he would give him the most valu- 
able ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this 
Portia affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying, " You 
teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered." " Dear Bas- 
sanio," said Antonio, '' let him have the ring ; let my love and the 
great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's 
displeasure," Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, 
and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring ; and then the clerk 
Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his 
ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by 
his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing among those ^ 
ladies to think, when they got home, how they would tax thein 
husbands with giving away their rings, and swear that they had 
given them as a present to some woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of min<^ 



THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 31 

which never fails to attend the consciousness of having per- 
formed a good action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed everything 
she saw ; the moon never seemed to shine so bright before ; ^ and 
when that pleasant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light 
which she saw from her house at Belmont as well pleased her 
charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, " That light we see is 
burning in my hall ; how far that little candle throws its beams, 
so shines a good deed in a naughty world; and hearing the 
sound of music from her house, she said, " Methinks that music 
sounds much sweeter than by day." And now Portia and JSTe- 
rissa entered the house, and dressing themselves in their own 
apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon 
followed them with Antonio ; and Bassanio presenting his dear 
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomiugs of 
that lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her 
husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel 
already !" said Portia. "What is the matter?" Gratiano re- 
plied, " Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, 
with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife, ' Lom me^ 
and leave me not.'' " 

" What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify ?" said 
Nerissa. •' You swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you 
would keep it till the hour of death ; and now you say you gave 
it to the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a woman." " By 
this hand," replied Grratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of 
boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher than yourself; he was clerk 
to the young counsellor, that by his wise pleading saved An- 
tonio's life ; this prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could 
not for my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to blame, 
Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord . 
Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all 
the world." Gratiano in excuse for his fault now said, "My lord 
Bassanio gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, 
his clerk, that took some pains in writing, he begged my ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bas- 

' Moon . . t . so bright before.— Read and study the first part of Act V., 
until the beauty and truth of this exquisite night scene is fully realized. Com- 
mit the twelve lines beginning :— 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank 1" etc. 



32 IHE MEKCHANT OF VEJ^ICE. 

sanio for giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught 
her what to believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring, 
Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and 
he said with great earnestness, '• No, by my honor, no woman had 
it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand ducats of me, and 
begged the nng, which when I denied him he went displeased 
away. "What could I do, sweet Portia ? I was so beset with shame 
for my seeming ingratitude, that I was ftn'ced to send the ring after 
him. Pardon me, good lady ; had you been there, I think you 
would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor." 

"Ah!" said Antonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these 
quarrels." 

Portia bade Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was 
welcome notwithstanding ; and then Antonio said, " I once did 
lend my body for Bassanio's sake, and but for him to whom your 
husband gave the nng, I should have now been dead. I dare 
be bound again, my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never 
more break his faith with you." 

"Then you shall be his surety,' said Portia; "give him this 
ring, and bid him keep it better than the other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised 
to find it was the same, he gave away ; and then Portia told him, 
how she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk ; 
and Bassanio found to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that 
it was by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that An- 
tonio's life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters 
which by some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained 
an account of Antonio's ships that were supposed lost, being 
safely arrived in the harbor. So these tragical beginnings of 
this rich merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected 
good fortune which ensued, and there was leisure to laugh at the 
comical adventure of the rings, and the husbands that did not 
know their own wives: Gratiano merrily declaring, in a sort of 
rhyming speech, that — 

while he liv'd, he'd fear no other thing 

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 



KING LEAR. 



"The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the 
dramas of Shakespeare. There is, perhaps, no play which keeps 
the attention so strongly fixed ; which so much agitates our pas- 
sions, and interests our curiosity." — Dr. Johnson. 



• PREFATORY NOTE. 

It is highly i3robable that the great tragedy of King Lear was 
written between 1603 and the end of 1606. It was first acted before 
James I. on the 26th of December, 1606, at Whitehall. The story 
of King Lear and his three daughters is one of the oldest stories in 
literature, and is found in many countries. It is told by GeoflFrey 
of Monmouth, in his Historia Britonum, and was probably derived 
by him from some Welsh legendary source. The legend is told by 
Layamon in his Brut ; by Hollinshed in his Qhronicle ; by Spenser 
in his Faerie Queene, and by a ballad-writer whose poem is 
printed in Percy's Beliques. But it is to Hollinshed that Shake- 
speare is especially indebted, though it is probable he took hints 
and suggestions from an older play of the same name. The result, 
in the language of Edward Dowden, is " the greatest single achieve- 
ment in poetry of the Teutonic or Northern genius." "It is," says 
Hazlitt, " the best of all Shakespeare's plays, for it is the one in 
which he was most in earnest. He was here fairly caught in the 
v/eb of his own imagination." 



Lear, King of Britain, had three daughters : Goneril, wife to 
the Duke of Albany ; Regan, wife to the Duke of Cornwall; and 
Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love the King of France and 
Duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and were at this time 
making stay for that purpose in the court of Lear. 

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of govern- 
ment, he being more than fourscore years old, determined to 



34 Kl^a LEAR. 

take no further part in state affairs, but to leave the manage- 
ment ^ to younger strengths, that he might have time to prepare 
for death, which must at no long period ensue. With this in- 
tent he called his three daughters'^ to him, to know from their 
own lips which of them loved him best, that he might part his 
kingdom among them in such proportions as their affection for 
him should seem to deserve. 

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more 
than words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the 
light of her own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of 
such professing stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is 
no real love, only a few fine words delivered with confidence 
being wanted in that case. The king, delighted to hear from 
her own mouth this assurance of her love, and thinking truly 
that her heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed 
upon her and her husband one-third of his ample kingdom. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what 
she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow 
metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, but 
rather declared that what her sister had spoken came short of 
the love which she professed to bear for his highness, insomuch 
that she found all other joys dead in comparison with the 
pleasure which she took in the love of her dear king and father. 
Lear blessed himself in' having such loving children as he 
thought, and could do no less, after the handsome assurances 
which Regan had made, than bestow^ a third of his kingdom 
upon her and her husband equal in size to that which he had 
already given away to Goneril. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he 
called his joy, he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt 
that she would glad his ears with the same loving speeches which 
her sisters had uttered, or rather that her expressions would be 
so much stronger than theirs, as she had always been his darling, 

^ L,eave the xnanagement. — It would appear from the opening sentence of 
Act I. that Lear had at first intended to divide the kingdom equally among his 
children : and bo much of his intention he had communicated to Kent and 
Gloucester. His " darker purpose " develops itself in the course of the scene. 

=• Called his three daughters, etc.— Read and quote this part of Act I., 
in which Lear's two wicked daughters profess their deep love for him, and the 
gentle Cordelia is discarded by the angry king. 



Kli^G LEAK. 35 

and favored by him above either of them. But Cordelia, dis- 
gusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew 
were far from their lips, and seeing that all their coaxing- 
speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out of his 
dominions that they and their husbands might reign in his life- 
time, made no other reply but this — that she loved his majesty 
according to her duty, neither more nor less. The king, shocked 
with this appearance of ingratitude in his favorite child, desired 
her to consider her words and to mend her speech, lest it should 
mar her fortunes. Cordelia then told her father ^ that he was her 
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved her ; that she 
returned those duties back as was most fit, and did obey him, 
love him, and most honor him. But that she could not frame 
her mouth to such large speeches as her sisters had done, or 
promise to love nothing else in the world. Why had her sisters 
husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for anything but 
their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to 
whom she gave her hand would want half her love, half of her 
care and duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love 
her father all. 

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her 'old father even almost as 
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly 
told him so at any other time in more daughter-like and loving 
terms, and without these qualifications, which did indeed sound 
a little ungracious ; but after the crafty, flattering si3eeches of her 
sisters, which drew such extravagant rewards, she thought the 
handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This 
put her affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed 
that she loved, but not for gain ; and that her professions, the 
less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and 
sincerity than her sisters. 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged 
the old monarch — who in his best of times always showed much of 
spleen and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age 

1 Told lier father, etc. — Eead and quote the passage. Act I., Scene 1, 
beginning : — 

" Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
My heart into my heart." 



36 KING LEAR. 

had so clouded over his reason that he could not discern trutli 
from flattery, nor a gay j^ainted speech from words that caim 
from the heart — that in a fury of resentment he retracted the 
third part of his kingdom which he had reserved for Cordelia, 
and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between her two 
sisters and their husbands, the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall, 
whom he now called to liim, and in presence of all his courtiers, 
bestowing a coronet between them, invested them jointly with 
all the power, revenue, and execution of government, only 
retaining to himself the name of king ; all the rest of royalty he 
resigned, with this reservation, that himself, with a hundred 
knights for his attendants, was to be maintained in each of his 
daughters' palaces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by 
' reason and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with 
astonishment and sorrow ; but none of them had the courage to 
interpose between this incensed king and his wrath except the 
Earl of Kent,^ who was beginning to speak a good word for 
Cordelia, when the jjassionate Lear, on pain of death, commanded 
him to desist ; but the good Kent was not so to be repelled. He 
had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honored as a king, 
loved as a father, followed as a master ; and had never esteemed 
his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal master's 
enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was the motive ; 
nor now that Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithful 
servant of the king forget his old principles, but manfully 
opposed Lear to do Lear good ; and was unmannerly only be- 
cause Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful counsellor in 
times past to the king, and he besought him now that he would 
see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty matters), end 
go by his advice still, and in his best consideration recall this i 
hideous rashness; for he would answer with his life, his judg- 
ment, that Lear's youngest daughter did not love him least, nor ' 
were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of 

' The Earl of Kent.— Kent is, perhaps, the nearest to perfect goodness in 
all Shakespeare's characters. There is an extraordinary charm in his bluntness. 
His passionate affection for and fidelity to Lear act on our feelings in Lear's 
own favor ; virtue seems to be in company with him.- ^'-' ----• - 



J 



KIXG LEAR. 37 

hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honor was bound 
to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, whose 
life was already at his service? That should not hinder duty 
from speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good Earl of Kent only stirred up 
the king's wrath the more; and like a frantic j^atient who kills 
his physician and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true 
servant, and allotted him but five days to make his preparations 
for departure ; but if on the sixth his hated jDcrson was found 
within the realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. 
And Kent bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he 
chose to show himself in such a fashion, it was but banishment 
to stay there ; and before he went, he recommended Cordolia to 
the protection of the gods — the maid who had so rightly thought 
and so discreetly spoken ; and only wished that her sisters' 
large speeches might be answered with deeds of love ; and 
then he went, as he said, to shape his old course to a new 
country. 

The King of France and Duke of Burgundy were now called 
in to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, 
and to know whether they would persist in their courtship to 
Cordelia, now that she was under her father's displeasure, and 
had no fortune but her own person to recommend her. The 
Duke of Burgundy declined the match, and would not take her 
to wife upon such conditions ; but the King of France, under- 
standing what the nature of the fault had been which had lost 
her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of sj)eech, 
and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her 
sisters, took this young maid ' by the hand, and saying that her 
virtues were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take 
farewell of her sisters and of her father, though he had been un- 
kind ; and she should go with him, and be queen of him and 
of fair France, and reign over fairer possessions thah her sisters ; 
and he called the Duke of Burgundy, in contempt, a waterish 

' Took this young maid.— Read and quote the passage in which the King 
of France invites Cordeha to be his queen, Act I., Scene 1, beginning : 
" Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich being poor, 
Most choice forsaken, and most lov'd despis'd." 



38 KIJSTG LEAR. 

duke, because his love for this young maid had in a moment 
run all away like water. 

Then Cordelia, with weeping eyes, took leave of her sisters, 
and besought them to love their father well and make good 
their professions ; and they sullenly told her no't to prescribe to 
them, for they knew their duty, but to strive to content her hus- 
band who had taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as For- 
tune's alms. And Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she 
knew the cunning of her sisters ; and she wished her father in 
better hands than she was about to leave him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone than the devilish dispositions of 
her sisters began to show themselves in their true colors. Even 
before the expiration of the first month, which Lear was to 
spend by agreement with his eldest daughter Goneril, the old 
king began to find out the difference between promises and per- 
formances. This wretch having got from her father all that he 
had to bestow, even to the giving away of the crown from off his 
head, began to grudge even those small remnants of royalty 
which the old man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy 
with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear'to see 
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, 
she put on a frowning countenance; and when the old man 
wanted to speak with her, she would feign sickness, or anything 
to be rid of the sight of him ; for it was plain that she esteemed 
his old age a useless burden, and his attendants an unnecessary 
expense. Not only she herself slackened in her expressions of 
duty to the king, but by her example, and (it is to be feared) 
not without her private instructions, her very servants treated 
him with neglect, and would refuse to obey his orders, or still 
more contemptuously pretend not to hear him. Lear could not 
but perceive this alteration in the behavior of his daughter, 
but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as people 
commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant consequences 
which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon 
them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill, than 
falsehood and hoUow-heartedness can be conciliated by good 
usage. This eminently appears in the instance of the good Earl 



KIKG LEAR. 30 

of Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit 
if he were found in Britain, chose to stay and abide all con- 
sequences, as long as there was a chance of his being useful to 
the king his master. See to what mean shifts and disguises poor 
loyalty is forced to submit sometimes ; yet it counts nothing base 
or unworthy, so as it can but do service where it owes an obliga- 
tion. In the disguise of a serving-man, all his greatness and 
pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king, 
who not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased 
with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness, in his answers which 
the earl put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery which 
he had so much reason to be sick of, having found the effects 
not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, 
and Lear took Kent into his service by the name of Caius, as he 
called himself, never suspecting him to be his once great favor- 
ite, the high and mighty Earl of Kent. This Caius quickly 
found means to show his fidelity and love to his royal master ; 
for Goneril's steward that same day behaving in a disrespectful 
manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language, as no 
doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, 
not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made 
no more ado but presently tripped uj) his heels, and laid the 
unmannerly slave in tlie kennel, for which friendly service Lear 
became more and more attached to him. 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as 
far as so insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor 
fool,^ or jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a 
palace, as it was the custom of kings and great personages at 
that time to keep a fool (as he was called) to make them spwrt 
after serious business; this jDoor fool clung to Lear after he had 
given away his crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up 
his good humor, though he could not refrain sometimes from 
jeering at his master for his imprudence, in uncrowning himself. 



1 Poor fool.— In this tragedy the Fool rises to heroic proportions, as he 
must have risen, to be in keeping with his surroundings. He has wisdom enough 
to stock a college of philosophers,— wisdom which has come from long expe- 
rience with the world without responsible relations to it. His whole soul is 
bound up in his love for Lear and for Cordelia. — Bichard Cfrant White. 



40 KIiq-G LEAR. 

and giving all away to Ms daughters ; at which time, as he 
rhymingly expressed it, these daughters 
" For sudden joy did weep, 
And he for sorrow sang, 
That such a king should play bo-peep, 
And go the fools among.'' 

And in such wild sayings and scraps of songs, of which he 
had pleuty, this jjleasant, honest fool poured out his heart even " 
in the presence of Groneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and 
jest which cut to the quick ; such as comparing the king to the 
hedge-sparrow, who feeds the young of the cuckoo till they 
grow old enough, and then has its head bit off for its pains ; and 
saying, that an ass may know when the cart draws the horse 
(meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind, now 
ranked before their father) ; and that Lear was no longer Lear, 
but the shadow of Lear ; for which free speeches he was once or 
twice threatened to be whipped. 

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun 
to perceive, were not all which this foolish-fond father was to 
suffer from his unworthy d-aughter: she now plainly told him 
that his staying in her palace was inconvenient so long as he 
insisted upon keeping up an establishment of a hundred knights; 
and this establishment was useless and expensive, and only 
served to till her court with riot and feasting ; and she prayed 
him that he would lessen their number, and keep none but old 
men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age. 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was 
his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe 
that she who had received a crown from him should seek to 
cut off his train, and grudge him the respect due to his old age. 
But she persisting in her undutiful demand, the old man's rage 
was so excited, that he called her a detested kite, and said that 
she spoke an untruth : and so indeed she did, for the hundred 
knights were all men of choice behavior and sobriety of manners, 
skilled in all particulars of duty, and "n ' oiven to rioting and 
feasting as she said. And he bid his horses to be prepared, for 
he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and his hundred 
knights: and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble- 



KI]S"Ct LEAR. 41 

hearted devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea- 
monster. And lie cursed his eldest daughter ^ Goneril so as was 
terrible to hear : praying that she might never have a child, or 
if she had, that it might live to return that scorn and contempt 
upon her, which she had shown to him ; that she might feel how 
sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless child, 
and Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, beginning to 
excuse himself for any share which Lear might suppose he had 
in the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a 
rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with his 
followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. And 
Lear thought to himself, how small the fault of Cordelia, (if it 
was a fault) now appeared, in comparison with her sister's, 
and he wept ; and then he was ashamed that such a creature 
as Goneril should have so much power over his manhood as 
to make him weep. 

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great 
pomp and state at their palace ; and Lear dispatched his servant 
Caius with letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared 
for his recej)tion, while he and his train followed after. But it 
seems that Goneril had been beforehand with him, sending 
letters also to Regan, accusing her father with waywardness 
and ill-humors, and advising her not to receive so great a 
train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived at 
the same time with Caius, and Caius and he met ; and who 
should it be but Caius' old enemy the steward, whom he had 
formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behavior to Lear. 
Caius not liking the fellow's look, and suspecting what he came 
for, began to revile him, and challenged him to fight, which the 
fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat him 
soundly, as such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked mes- 
sages deserved : which coming to the ears of Regan and her 
husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he 
was a messenger from- .t|ie king her father, and in that character 
demanded the higheoc respect ; so that the first thing the king 

^ Cursed his eldest daugliter.— The language in the text is too scathing 
for pleasant reading. A critic remarks that we shall have to go to the Book of 
Deuteronomy to find a parallel for the concentrated force of this curse. 



4^ KI^-G LEAR. 

saw when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius 
sitting in that disgraceful situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to 
expect; but a worse followed, when upon inquiry for his 
daughter and her husband, he was told they were weary with 
traveling all night, and could not see him : and when lastly, 
upon his insisting in a jDositive and angry manner to see them, 
they came to greet him, whom should he see in their company 
but the hated Goneril, who had come to tell her own story, and 
set her sister against the king her father ! 

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see 
Regan take her by the hand : and he asked Goneril if she was 
not ashamed to look upon his white beard ? And Regan advised 
him to go home again with Goneril, and live with her peaceably, 
dismissing half of his attendants, and to ask her forgiveness; 
for he was old and wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led 
by persons that had more discretion than himself. And Lear 
showed how preposterous that would sound, if he were to go 
down on his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food and 
raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural dependence ; 
declaring his resolution never to^ return with her, but to stay 
where he was with Regan, he and his hundred knights : for hi 
said that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which h( 
had endowed her with, and that her eyes were not fierce liki 
Goneril's, but mild and kind. And he said that rather than 
return to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would go over 
to France, and beg a wretched pension of the king there, who 
had married his youngest daughter without a portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Rega: 
than he had experienced from her sister Goneril. Asifwillinj 
to outdo her sister in unfilial behavior, she declared that si 
thought fifty knights too many to wait upon him— that five-am 
twenty were enough. Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned 
Goneril, and said that he would go back with her, for her fi 
doubled five-and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much as 
Regan's. But Goneril excused herself, and said, " What need of 
so many as five-and-twenty ? or even ten ? or five ? when he 
might be waited upon by her servants or her sister's servants ? 



I 



KIKG LEAR. 4^ 

So these two wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed each 
other in cruelty to their old father who had been so good to 
thera, by little and little would have abated him of all his train, 
all respect (little enough for him that once commanded a king- 
dom), which was left him to show that he had once been a king ! 
Not that a splendid train is essential to happiness, but from a 
king to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding millions to 
be without one attendant ; and it was the ingratitude in his 
daughters denying it, more than what he would suffer by the 
want of it, which pierced this poor king to the heart; insomuch 
that with this double ill-usage, and vexation for having so fool- 
ishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, and 
while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against those 
unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a 
terror to the earth ! 

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could 
never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and 
lightning with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their 
resolution not to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and 
chose rather to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, 
than stay under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters : 
and they, saying that the injuries which wilful men procure to 
themselves, are their just punishment, suffered him to go in that 
condition, and shut their doors upon him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when 
the old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp 
than his daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there 
was scarce a bush: and there UjDon a heath, exposed to the fury 
of the storm in a dark night, did King Lear wander out, and 
defy the winds and the thunder : and he bid the winds ^ to blow 
the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea, till they 
drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any such 
ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left with no 
companion but the poor fool, who still abided with him, with his 



^ Bid the winds. — Eead and quote this great passage of the play, in which 
Lear and the Fool are exposed to the fury of the tempest, Act IIL, Scenes 2 and 
4, beginning :— 

" Blow, winds, and crack ypur cheeks I" etc. 



44 KING LEAH. 

merry conceits striving to out-jest misfortune, saying, it was but 
a naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go in 
and ask his daughter's blessing : 

" But he that has a little tiny wit, 
With heigh ho, the wind and rain 1 
Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
Though the rain it raineth everyday; " 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. 

Thus poorly accomj)amed, this once great monarch was found 
by his ever faithful servant the good Earl of Kent, now trans- 
formed to Caius, who ever followed close at his side, though the 
king did not know him to be the earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, 
are you here? Creatures that love night love not such nights as 
these. This dreadful storm has driven the beasts to their hiding- 
places. Man's nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear." 
And Lear rebuked him, and said, these lesser evils were not felt, 
where a greater malady was fixed. When the mind is at ease, 
the body has leisure to be delicate ; but the tempest in his mind 
did take all feelings else from his senses, but of that which beat 
at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was 
all one as if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to 
it ; for parents were hands and food and everything to children. 

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that the 
king would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded* him 
to enter a little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, 
where the fool first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying 
that he had seen a spirit. But upon examination this spirit 
proved to be nothing more than a poor Bedlam-beggar, who had 
crept into this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his talk- 
about devils frightened the fool, one of those poor lunatics who 
are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to extort charity from 
the compassionate country -people ; who go about the country 
calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying, "Who 
gives anything to poor Tom ?" sticking pins and nails and 
sprigs of- rosemary into their arms to make them bleed; with 
such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic 
curses, they move or terrify the ignorant country folks into 
giving tliem alms. This poor fellow was such a one ; and the 



i 



_iL 



KIJ^G LEAK. 45 

king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a 
blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be 
persuaded but that the fellow was some father who had given 
all away to his daughters, and brought himself to that pass ; for 
nothing, he thought, could bring a man to such wretchedness 
but the having unkind daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, 
the good Cains plainly perceived that he was not in his per- 
fect mind, but that his daughters' ill-usage had really made him 
go mad.' And now the loyalty of this worthy Earl of Kent 
showed itself in more essential services than he had hitherto 
found opportunity to perform. For with the assistance of some 
of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of 
his royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, 
where his own friends and influence, as Earl of Kent, chiefly lay ; 
and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court of 
Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the 
pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively 
colors the inhumanity of her sisters; that this good and loving 
child with many tears besought the king her husband, that he 
would give her leave to embark for England with a s.uflicient 
power to subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and 
restore the old king, her father, to his throne ; which being 
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army she landed at Dover. 

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians 
which the good Earl of Kent had put over him to take care of 
him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia's train, wan- 
dering about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark 
mad and singing aloud to himself, with a crown uj)on his head 
which he had made of straw and nettles, and other wild weeds 
that he had picked up in the corn fields. By the advice of the 
physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her 
father, was prevailed upon to put oflf the meeting, till by sleep 

1 Made him go mad.— Dr. Biicknill remarks: "Insanity arising from 
mental and moral causes often continues in a certain state of imperfect develop- 
ment ; a state of exaggerated and perverted emotion, accompanied by 

violent and irregular conduct, but unconnected with intellectual aberration ; 
until some physical shock is incurred,— bodily illness, or accident, or exposure to 
physical suffering ; and then the imperfect type of mental disease is converted 
into perfect lunacy, characterized by a more or less profound affection of the 
intellect, by delusion or incoherence," 



46 KlIS'G LEAK. 

and the operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be 
restored to greater composure. By the aid of these skilful 
physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels 
for the recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to 
see his daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father 
and daughter ; ^ to see the struggles between the joy of this poor 
old king at beholding again his once darling child, and the 
shame at receiving such filial kindess from her whom he had cast 
off lor so small a fault in his displeasure ; both these passions 
struggling with the remains of his malady, which, in his half- 
crazed brain, sometimes made him that he scarce remembered 
where he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke 
to him ; and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at 
him if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughter 
Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon 
of his child ; and she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a 
blessing of him, and telling him that it did not become him to 
kneel, but it was her duty, for she was his child — his true and very 
child Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said) to kiss away 
all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they might be ashamed 
of themselves to turn their old kind father with his white beard 
out into the cold air, when her enemy's dog, though it had bit 
her (as she prettily expressed it), should have stayed by her 
fire such a night as that and warmed himself. And she told her 
father how she had come from France with j)urpose to bring 
him assistance ; and he said that she must forget and forgive, for 
he was old and foolish and did not know what he did, but that 
to be sure she had great cause not to love him, but her sisters 
had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more 
than they had. So we will leave this old king in the protection 
of this dutiful and loving child, where by the help of sleep ^ and 



1 Meeting between father and daughter.— Read and quote the touch- 
ing scene in which Cordelia meets her father, Act IV., Scene 7, beginning :— 
" O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work," etc. 

^ Help of sleep, etc. — One wonders at Shakespeare's profound knowledge 
of mental disease. Although, nearly two hundred and fifty years have passed 
since the Great Dramatist thus wrote, science has very little to add to the 
method of treating thj insane as set forth in Lear.. 



KING LEAR. 47 

medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded in winding 
up the untuned and jarring senses which the cruelty of his other 
daughters had so violently shaken. Let us return to say !i word 
or two about those cruel daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their ol<l 
father, could not be expected to prore more faithful to their own 
husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the apjjearance 
of duty and affection, and in an open way showed that they had 
fixed their loves upon another. It happened that the object of 
their guilty loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son 
of the late Earl of Gloucester, who, by his treacheries, had suc- 
ceeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from 
his earldom, and by his wncked practices was now earl himself 
— a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such wicked 
creatures as Goneril and Regan. It falling out about this time 
that the Duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan im- 
mediately declared her intention of wedding this Earl of Glou- 
cester, which roused the jealousy of her sister — to whom as well 
as to Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times professed love 
— Goneril found means to make away with her sister by poison ; 
but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her 
husband, the Duke of Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty 
passion for the earl, which had come to his ears, she, in a fit 
of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her own 
life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked 
daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admixing the 
justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were 
suddenly taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious 
ways of the same power in the melancholy fate of the young and 
virtuous ■ daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did 
seem to deserve a more fortunate conclusion ; but it is an awful 
truth that innocence and piety are not always successful in this 
world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had sent out under 
the command of the bad Earl of Gloucester were victorious ; and 
Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked earl — who did not like 
that any should stand between him and the throne — ended her 



48 KIJ^G LEAK. 

life in prison.^ Thus Heaven took this innocent lady- to itself 
in her young years, after showing to the world an illustrious 
example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind 
child. 

Before he died, the good Earl of Kent, who had still attended 
his old master's steps from the first of his daughters' ill-usage 
to this sad period of his decay, tried to make him understand 
that it was he who had followed him under the name of Caius; 
but Lear's care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend 
how that could be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same . 
person ; so Kent thought it needless to trouble him with expla- 
nations at such a time ; and Lear soon after expiring, this faith- 
ful servant to the king, between age and grief for his old mas- 
ter's vexations, soon followed him to the grave. 

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad Earl of Glou- 
cester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself slain in 
single combat w4th his brother, the lawful earl ; and how 
Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany — who was innocent of 
the death of Cordelia, and had never encouraged his lady in lier 
wicked proceedings against her fnther — ascended the throne 
of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless here to narrate; 
Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whose adventures 
alone concern our story. 

' Ended her life in prison. — In the old play, as in the modern acted 
drama, altered from the original by Tate, Cordelia is left victorious and happy, 
and Lear is restored to his throne, instead of her death in prison and Lear's 
dying hrokeu-hearted at her loss. Tate's version held the stage for a hundred 
and sixty years and was discarded only ahout forty years ago. 

"^ Innocent lady. —Read the pathetic passage, Act V., Scene 3, in which the 
poor old king enters bearing Cordelia dead in his arms, beginning : — 
" She is gone forever ! 
I know when one is dead, and when one lives. 
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass ; 
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, 
Why, then she lives." 



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